The muffled thud of padded leather boots echoed through the midnight fog.
Between Hour 665 and Hour 680, four Iron Bone Late guild deacons marched in lockstep along the damp river flats. Their broad shoulders bore the cedar carrying poles with practiced, mechanical rhythm.
Inside the traveling palanquin, not a single hemp cord strained.
Kaelen Vance lay stretched out in his canvas hammock, wrapped snugly in two thick quilts of white goose down. A small bronze oil lamp hung from a counter-weighted brass chain above his head, swaying with gentle, hypnotic smoothness.
In his left hand, he held the dog-eared pages of Book 6 of The Bandit King’s Secret Bride.
On the cedar tray beside him, his clay mug of roasted barley tea remained as calm as a frozen pond. The surface showed barely a ripple.
Warfare is mostly bad planning and noisy shouting, Kaelen thought with deep satisfaction. Generals write thick treatises on forced marches and battlefield grit. But a properly counter-weighted hammock solves ninety percent of military fatigue.
He took a slow sip of warm tea, letting the roasted grain flavor coat his throat.
